


Camera Flash

by vandal_aria



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Body Horror, Concussions, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Experimentation, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandal_aria/pseuds/vandal_aria
Summary: The facility was supposed to be abandoned.  He’d made a mistake.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	Camera Flash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saisei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/gifts).



> Takes place during the time skip between chapters 13 and 14.
> 
> Content warnings: body horror, non-consensual medical experimentation, non-consensual wound fingering, vomit, corpses, head injuries, violence

The facility was supposed to be abandoned. While he wasn’t sure exactly when the… _presence_ had appeared at his back, it had been following long enough for Prompto to know he was in trouble. The hairs on the back of his neck felt like spider legs as his nerves crawled with the sense of something just on the edges of his hearing. But there was nothing. He turned several times, hid around corners to see if it would pass, and finally charged back they way he had come, and it was always, always out of sight.

Prompto checked unsuccessfully for phone service, and thought about shouting for his friends, but if the presence thought he was alone, maybe it wouldn’t go after them too. The more he walked, the heavier the shadows felt around each corner. He was uncomfortably aware that his flashlight had run out of battery twenty minutes ago; he forgot to bring spares. His lung felt tight, and he was sure there was a sound, this time ahead of him, in a corridor where even the safety lights were out.

He pulled out his camera, closed his eyes, and set the flash off. Checking the preview screen, there was nothing unusual in the image, but he heard it again. There were a moist, rhythmic _slap…slap…slap_ , like someone stomping barefoot with sweaty feet. He closed his eyes and took another picture. 

There, in the image on the preview screen, was a pale hand on the floor, coming around the corner about ten feet away. “Fuck,” Prompto breathed, fumbling to reset the camera and take another picture. He forgot to close his eyes, and in the brief moment before he was blinded by the flash he saw an arm covered in old, sticky blood and a head with matted blonde hair.

The camera fell out of his hands as he turned and tried to dash back up the part of the corridor that was still partially lit, vision still swimming from the flash. Within a few steps he hit something solid and tall and warm. For a second, relief flooded Prompto’s body, believing what he had just crashed into was Gladio’s broad chest. He stayed there, feeling large hands grip his upper arms, until all at once he realized the grip was too tight and the smell was all wrong—too stale, too old—to be Gladio.

“How did you get out of your cage, little bird?” The voice grated at his ears, this man sounded like a rusty fence. Prompto looked up and realized that was because his neck was ruined with scar tissue like a failed execution.

“Get the fuck off me,” Prompto growled, higher pitched than he would have liked. He jerked back and punched a knee up into the man’s groin, but hit armor. His pulse thundered in his skull. The stench of the man’s mouth was incredible.

Surprise crossed his captor’s face, and his milky eyes squinted to peer more closely at Prompto. “A wild type? Is that even possible?” he muttered to himself, pressing their bodies together. “Hmm, interesting.”

“What?” Prompto said, a creeping horror threading along his nerves. He tried to pull away again, but he was held fast. The man was much larger than him and the armor limited his options to fight. Ultimately, he decided shouting for help was his best option, hoping desperately the sound would reach his friends. “HELP! HEL—”

“Shut up,” the man yelled back. Prompto felt himself being shoved away, pushed against the wall with enough force that his head bounced off and he blacked out.

__

The room was dimly lit—emergency lights and the glow from a series of computers. Prompto’s head throbbed even with that tiny amount. His eyeballs felt like they were trying to squeeze out of his skull. Processing his environment was difficult. He thought his arms and legs might be tied, or maybe his head was just too fucked up to move. Maybe he had brain damage. Maybe his spine was broken. He couldn’t get himself to focus well enough to figure it out. At least he could remember hitting a hard metal wall, if not the circumstances.

There were beeping sounds near his head, along with some intermittent typing, and each tiny noise felt like someone was driving an icepick into his eardrum. He wanted to say something, but the noise came out a whimper instead of a word.

“Oh, it’s awake.” The voice made Prompto’s blood run cold as he remembered the large man that had caught him sneaking around…before another blow to the head put him under again.

__

Prompto woke up on a cold, hard surface, vision tilting as the vertigo made him shift his throbbing head side to side trying to relieve it. How long had he been out? He was in the same room, he thought, though it was hard to see through the pain. He felt something wet at his temple, and he guessed it was probably blood.

The rotting man wasn’t there, or at least not anywhere Prompto could see from the limited vantage of the floor. It appeared he had been dragged closer to the computer station, and the chair was empty. Prompto knew this might be his only chance to escape, as awful as he felt. He lay still, listening for any signs of life while he tried to get his bearings enough to roll over and check for the door.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the computers. Prompto felt lucky that his arms were bound in the front, so he had a little bit of leverage to move himself around. His vision grayed out as he rolled, but not enough to obscure what was laying next to him. Prompto was face to face with a lifeless version of himself, blue eyes held wide in death. It took every fiber of his being not to scream, not to let the rotting man know he was awake, not to jeopardize his escape.

The dead MT was in bad shape. He was missing all of his limbs and there were other wounds all over his body, but his face was the most disquieting thing about it. Despite what was probably a painful death, he seemed relieved. Prompto shut his eyes and tried to get his breathing under control.

Behind his eyelids, he could still see the MT’s face, his own face, and thought about what kind of existence could cause a man to see that kind of a death as a release. Undoubtedly, he was going to find out if he didn’t get moving. Prompto forced himself to sit up, trying to ignore how much the room was spinning and the pressure in his skull.

What he could see through the haze was a larger room than he expected. His captor had dumped him in an alcove of desks. There was a dirty metal exam table nearby with an assortment of equipment around it. The rest of the room was lined with five tanks that he recognized with a sickening drop of his stomach. Two had MTs in them, two were empty, and one was clouded with dark fluid and unsettling shapes that he didn’t want to think about or look at too closely. He was pretty sure he saw a partially decomposed hand.

There were scissors in a cup with some pens on the computer table, and Prompto was able to get them without too much struggle. His phone was gone, and that was a big problem, but he’d have to deal with later. He could see the door as he hacked through the ropes, it wasn’t far. There was no sign of the rotting man as he started checking the tanks. The two MTs were alive in their tanks, as far as he could tell, but he had no idea how to get them open.

Prompto pulled off the cover on the control pad; it was an older model than he was used to seeing, without even a place to try scanning his barcode. “Aw, come on....” 

There was a click, and Prompto’s blood ran cold. Even before he could steady himself upright the rotting man was on him. One foot in the grave, but he was _fast_. He grabbed the back of Prompto’s neck and plunged a knife into his side. The pain exploding through him was incredible, and he cried out.

The rotting man’s face was inches away from him, carrying a deep frown. “More spunk in this one than the others,” he muttered. He pulled out the knife and shoved Prompto down on the floor, where he curled in on himself and cried.

The absolute terror and likelihood of death crept over him as the adrenaline of the attempted escape receded. He could hear the rotting man talking to himself and Prompto nearly started to beg for his life, yet he knew deep down that was futile. There was no reason behind his captor’s actions, only that he had the same face as those poor bastards in the tanks. Perhaps he had been a scientist or a guard before the facility was decommissioned and abandoned, and he had seen his chance, and never left.

The rotting man was leaning over him, forcing his body to uncurl and rolling him onto his back. He had an old stethoscope around his neck, dangling down in Prompto’s face as the man ripped his shirt open.

“N-no no no no,” Prompto started repeating, trying to push the man’s hands away from his chest where he pressed the stethoscope nowhere near his heart. The man appeared satisfied and put it aside. He prodding his fingers along Prompto’s ribs until his found the knife wound, carefully feeling around the edges of the soft, torn flesh. They slipped easily inside with the blood lubricating around the man’s calloused knuckles. 

It was the worst feeling Prompto had ever experienced. He vomited, choking on it until the man pulled his fingers out of the wound and flipped him over onto his stomach. The second time he felt the man’s fingers enter the wound, Prompto blacked out.

__

The hours went in and out of Prompto’s consciousness as he drifted on pain and blood loss. If there hadn’t been a clock on the desk, he might not have realized any time had passed at all. How long had he been there? The rotting man moved him around once in a while, but Prompto wasn’t aware enough to know what he was doing. His head felt like it was boiling, face covered in sweat and dried sick. The pain in his side was excruciating. He was dying, and it wasn’t such a terrifying thought anymore.

There were voices at one point, with some other noises that didn’t make much sense. He couldn’t stay awake. He thought he dreamed about Noct and looking, just looking, at his kind, sleepy smile while they lay next to each other.

Prompto felt cold, but it came as a relief after the heat of the previous hours…or maybe days. The cold was lapping at his face over and over, slowly. Something was clutching his shoulder. His fingers curled into warm leather and warm, firm skin. He inhaled slowly.

“You awake?” a voice rumbled against his ear, deep and familiar.

Prompto could barely crack his eyelids open, sleep threatening to instantly drag him back under, but he had to know with all his senses that it was Gladio and not the rotting man.

“Hey, there you are,” Gladio rumbled, swiping the damp hair away from his face. The big face looked plainly frightened, pale and wide-eyed. “Iggy is cooking something up, he’ll be right back.”

Prompto found his tongue was too thick and dry to speak. He could see they were in the back seat of the car, and Gladio was holding him. There was a damp, cold rag resting on his forehead. He felt his body start shivering, but it was disconnected and Prompto guessed he had a bad fever.

Gladio wrapped both arms around him, carefully. If Prompto had had any energy left, he would have sobbed in relief. His side throbbed with each tiny movement or beat of his heart, and it hit like a freight train that Noct wasn’t here, but he was grateful nonetheless to be alive and cared for.

“He’s awake?” Ignis’ voice, carefully quiet. “Good, the broth is ready.”

The smell of chicken fat and herbs reached Prompto’s nose, and a hot mug was pressed into his hands. Ignis helped him hold it and take a small sip. He was so thirsty and it tasted like heaven. Gladio’s big hand combed through his hair as he drank slowly and managed to choke down a few pills for the pain.

Ignis was largely silent and distant, leaving Gladio to help him finish the broth, but Prompto could see him standing out the window, shoulders held starkly rigid against the dim dawn light. The tent was half erected nearby. Gladio talked to him, always touching, keeping him warm, checking his bandages. It felt nice, and after a while the pain in his head and his side dulled somewhat.

Ignis didn’t return, but fumbled through finishing the tent while Gladio watched from the car, brows deeply furrowed. Prompto wanted to rub out that crease with his thumb, but he didn’t have the strength. Eventfully, Ignis ushered them both to the tent, and Gladio settled him into a nest of bedding at the center of the room before going outside. Out the flap, Prompto could see him stirring the fire with his back to the tent, probably to give Ignis some semblance of privacy.

“This is my fault Prompto, I am sorry,” Ignis said, smoothing an extra sleeping bag over his chest. “I thought...” he started, and turned away silently. When he did speak again, his voice was thick with guilt. “We buried you. The body was badly...damaged. I didn’t know there were others until yesterday. We should have kept looking. I’m so sorry.”

Prompto knew Ignis couldn’t tell when he was crying anymore, so he reached up with a shaking arm to place his palm over on his beloved friend’s cheek, swiping the tears away. “I know,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

“It is not...but I’m grateful you’re alive,” Ignis replied. He put Prompto’s hand back down under the covers. “Rest.”


End file.
